Chapter 34 – Silas - In the Ashes
A thick haze crawling through the gutted safehouse like it means to choke out the last of the living. Every window is shattered, jagged teeth biting down on what’s left of the night outside. The floor is a ruin of glass, blood, and brass casings, the air sour with cordite and copper.
Elias hasn’t moved from Mara. He kneels in the wreckage with her clutched to his chest, whispering words against her hair, promises laced with fury. His arm locked around her as though the world might pry her from him if he loosens his grip.
Mara is trembling, sobbing into his neck, fingers clawing at his jacket like she’s afraid he’ll vanish if she lets go. She doesn’t care about the blood on his hands or the streaks of it on his cheek. To her, he’s not a killer kneeling in a graveyard of bodies. He’s safety.
And Elias lets her believe it.
Jax slumps against the wall near the doorframe, his gun hanging limp in his hand, eyes wide as if he’s only just realized what we’ve walked through.
His chest heaves, his shirt soaked through with sweat.
He stares at the corpses scattered around us, at the ruin of the furniture, at Mara trembling in Elias’s arms. He whispers, cracked and broken, “Jesus Christ.”
I almost burst out laughing. Not because it’s funny, but because the kid still thinks God has anything to do with rooms like this.
Elias lifts Mara to her feet, one arm locked around her waist, steering her toward the hall. He spares no glance at the wreckage, no acknowledgement of the men he lost tonight, only the woman in his arms. His voice is harsh, meant for her alone. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”
Safe.
The word hangs in the air like a lie. The floor is slick with blood, the walls torn apart, and Mara’s safe because Elias slaughtered every man who dared touch her. There’s nothing safe about it. But she nods anyway, like saying it will make it true.
Elias barks over his shoulder without turning. “We’re done here. Strip weapons. Leave the bodies. We move.”
Jax jolts as if he’s been whipped, hurrying to scoop up rifles from the fallen, his hands clumsy, movements jerky. He’s rattled, but he obeys.
I crouch to grab ammo from a man sprawled against the wall, the stink of his blood heavy enough to coat the back of my throat. When I rise again, Lydia is still staring at Elias and Mara, her knife loose now, hanging at her side. She looks like she’s seeing ghosts—maybe her own.
She catches me watching. Her eyes narrow, sharp again, as if daring me to say it.
I step closer until the smoke shadows my words. “You want to know what it feels like?”
Her grip tightens on the blade. She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t have to.
We pile into the car reeking of blood. Elias takes the backseat with Mara pressed against him, her face buried in his chest, his arm locked around her as though he means to weld her into his body.
Jax takes the wheel this time, eyes darting between the windshield and the rearview, shoulders hunched like he’s afraid Elias will see the doubt on his face.
No one speaks on the drive back. The silence is a wound that stretches across every mile, tight and throbbing. Lydia sits beside Mara and Elias in the backseat, her gaze fixed on the blur of city lights.
Her knife is still in her lap, blood dried to the hilt, she hasn’t bothered to clean it. She doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t shift. She just stares, as though the whole city is daring her to blink first.
By the time we reach the safehouse, the sky has darkened fully. Elias doesn’t wait for Jax to cut the engine before he yanks the door open, dragging Mara inside with him. His stride is relentless, his hand locked around hers, his body coiled with possession so sharp it makes the air sting.
The interior is cleaner, untouched by war.
A narrow hall stretches past the entry, dim lights humming overhead, walls lined with doors leading to rooms no one ever stays in for long.
Elias doesn’t even glance at them. He pulls Mara straight to the farthest room, his voice low but urgent.
“With me.” The door shuts behind them, locking the rest of us out.
Jax lingers by the table, setting down the rifles he stripped from Drazen’s men.
His hands shake as he lines them up, metal clinking against wood.
He looks pale, drained, his eyes hollow.
He finally mutters, “I’ll keep watch.” His voice cracks on the word watch, but he moves anyway, disappearing toward the front of the house.
That leaves me in the hall, shirt sticking to my skin where blood—mine or someone else’s—has dried into the fabric.
The gash across my shoulder burns every time I move, so I peel the shirt off, drop it to the floor, and press my palm against the wound.
It’s shallow, messy, more annoyance than threat, but the sting is enough to keep me grounded.
When I look up, Lydia is there.
She leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, her gaze flicking from my bare shoulder to the blood on my chest. Her expression doesn’t change, but something sharp glints in her eyes.
“You bleed like a stuck pig,” she says.
I snort, wiping my hand against the shredded fabric of my shirt. “You watch too much.”
Her lips tilt into the faintest smirk. “Maybe I like watching.”
I take a step toward her, bare feet padding against the wood floor, muscles straining with every move. The hallway is narrow, walls closing in, and her presence fills it until there’s nowhere else for me to stand but in front of her.
“You spent the last half hour staring at Elias like you wanted what Mara has,” I tell her, my voice low, deliberate.
Her eyes flash. “You think I want to be held like that? Caged like that?”
I lean closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. “No. You want to know what it feels like to make someone lose control like that. To make them burn for you.”
Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t deny it.
Her knife is still in her hand, and when I close my fingers around her wrist, she doesn’t pull away.
Her wrist is caught in my grip, her pulse hammering against my palm. The knife glints between her fingers, but she doesn’t raise it. She doesn’t need to. The threat is in her eyes, not the blade.
“You think you know me,” she says, her tone flat, almost bored, though I see the twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You think you can read me like you’ve got the manual. Like I’m really so transparent and basic, huh?”
I squeeze her wrist tighter, press her hand back against the wall until the knife handle digs into plaster. “I don’t think. I know you. It has nothing to do with transparency. I simply see you, Lydia.”
Her chin tips higher. “Then tell me, Agent Ward, what am I?”
The word agent is a dagger.
“You’re a woman who can’t stand to be overlooked,” I say. “You want control so badly you’d choke on it before you’d let it slip. You watched Elias with Mara tonight and hated him for it, because it reminded you that all your sharp edges can’t buy that kind of devotion.”
Her eyes darken, and for a second, I think she’ll spit in my face. Instead, she laughs. A sharp, humorless sound. “Devotion looks like slavery to me.”
I lean closer, my body pinning hers against the wall, the space between us vanishing. “And yet here you are. Letting me hold you. Letting me see you.”
Her free hand fists in my hair, pulling my head so that our eyes lock. “Don’t mistake my interest for weakness,” she hisses.
My lips curve. “I wouldn’t survive you if I did.”
The knife clatters to the floor between us. She lets it fall, because what we’re doing now is more dangerous than any blade.
Her mouth crashes into mine, violent, teeth clashing, lips bruising. She tastes like whiskey and iron, fury coating every kiss. I shove her harder into the wall, one hand gripping her throat, not tight enough to stop her air, but enough to claim space, to demand she feels it.
She bites my lip hard enough to draw blood. I growl against her mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us. She pulls back just enough to whisper, “You want to own me?”
My hand tightens at her throat, my eyes locked on hers. “No. I want you to choose me.”
Her breath comes fast, chest rising against mine, heat pouring off her in waves. She laughs again, softer this time, but it carries more menace. “Then take me, Ward. Take what you think I won’t give.”
I drag her mouth back to mine, swallowing the challenge. The kiss is a fight, each of us pushing, each of us daring the other to surrender. Her nails rake down my chest, tearing across the raw wound in my shoulder, pain sparking white-hot, but I don’t pull back.
Her hips grind against me, reckless, as though proving she can set the pace even with my hand still at her throat. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch. Every move is defiance wrapped in desire.
And I know, this isn’t about surrender. Not yet. This is about her proving she can ride the storm instead of being consumed by it.
Her nails rake down my chest again, dragging across the cut on my shoulder, as though he’s intentionally pulling my strings, pain blooming sharp and hot.
It doesn’t slow me. It drives me harder against her, my hand braced against the wall by her head, the other pinning her hip.
She tilts her chin higher, eyes locked on mine, daring me to break first.
Our mouths fuse together again, rougher this time, teeth clashing, tongues tangling.
There’s no masterful rhythm to it, and no patience either.
Our mouths make love like it’s war. And that exactly what it is: a war where our tongues battle for dominance.
She tastes like liquor and adrenaline, like a woman who refuses to be tamed. Like heaven and hell, all in one.